Bleach
by Artemis Zephyr
Summary: Sometimes the removal of physical dirt is what takes us one step closer to removing the emotional grime. [implied Bakura/Ryou Yaoi].
1. Bleach

Nothing too terrible.

  
Warnings: Implied rape, yaoi, and mental unstableness.

Bleach

The glass came out easy enough. Well, as easy as glass can come out of skin, I guess. The cuts are tiny but numerous. They litter my skin little pinpricks of pain that singe as the hot water pours down on them. The water is as hot as I can take it, and that includes that fact that I have my jaw set tight and my eyes clamped shut.

My white hair hangs in my face, tangled and messy. I don't feel like moving just yet. I want most of the grime to come off on its own. I just need to do the cleaning.

The blood and semen come off my body fairly easy, no washing involved. They trickle down into the water and spin around discoloring it. Until suddenly they're both gone from view. Down the drain where I never have to worry about them again.

They just wash right off. But I know. I know that the stain is still there. And that is going to take a lot of scrubbing.

The rivulets of water are like liquid streams of cinder as they roll down my body. The blood is being washed away along with everything else. The steam in the room is terribly thick. I can't see the door anymore through the hazy fog. You could come in at any moment.

But I know you won't.

You'll let me have this time to myself. Let me mend a little before the time comes to break me again. You'll let me heal as much as one can heal after what you do. It's not a big deal. It's a routine. I've grown quite used to it at this point.

I reach down and pick up a jug off the shower floor. Bleach.

The bottle has only a small amount left, as I said before this has become a bit of a routine now. Unscrewing the cap and pouring a handful of the caustic substance into my hand I rub it all over my skin. Up my arms, my chest, back, thighs. Everywhere. No place must go untouched by the substance.

I feel fine for a moment; letting the thick and stinging smell of the bleach overtake the bathroom. Suddenly there is pain. It's everywhere. Everyplace where the skin was broken, everyplace that blood poured out of; they all burn. I grit my teeth again and smile.

God, it feels so good.

I grab a scrubbing pad from the shelf in the shower and scour my body as the bleach continues to eat away at my cuts and scratches. I rake the mock wash cloth down every inch of me, feeling it burn as well when it scrapes my skin.

I step back into the stream of water and turn the hot water up some more. Scalding water shoots down over my body once again and the cuts explode in pain. I can smell the bleach everywhere.

Taking a deep breath I reach for the bar of soap. This is not to clean my skin. No, I've already done that. This is for my hair. I lather up the soap, ignoring the bottle of shampoo and conditioner that I normally use when bathing. This is a special occasion.

You see, I'm not bathing.

I'm sterilizing.

Running my hands roughly through my hair, I scrub into my scalp with my nails. I can feel the soap stripping my hair of the oils and dirt that were once there. The suds are getting thick, and again I step into the shower of water.

Once my hair is rinsed, I reach for the jug again. One last thing to do.

Pouring some into my hand I shut my eyes as tight as I can and rub the acidic solution over my face. Forcing myself to let the hot water fall directly on my face, I wait until I'm sure most of the bleach is gone before scrubbing my face again.

I sigh deeply as I get out of the shower. I think that I may sigh too much.

Leaving the towel around my waist I reach for my toothbrush and put a good amount of toothpaste on it. I turn the water on as cold as it can go and I scrub. I scrub until my gums start to bleed.

Suddenly the urge to vomit is strong. It always is at this point.

I drop to my knees and gag a few moments until all the food I had eaten today comes up. I feel some sort of sick gratitude that I no longer have to have anything in my body. Almost as though I have purged myself of everything sick and twisted inside me.

I grab my toothbrush back up and continue brushing as though nothing has happened. I got through the cycle once, and then spit. Rinsing my toothbrush a bit, I jam it back into my mouth and scrub hard, and then spit.

I clean the toothbrush out and reach for the mouthwash. This is the kind of mouthwash that you count down the seconds on, since it's so strong. The kind that stings the inside of your mouth so that it tastes like it's eating away at the skin.

I swish the substance for longer than I have to, enjoying the small feelings of pain where the alcohol comes in contact with the areas where I brushed too hard.

I open the door and walk across the hall into my bedroom. I don't even bother picking up my dirty clothes from the bathroom. I want them to stay there, almost as though if I were to pick them up I would get dirty again.

In my room I put on clean clothes. It's evening now, but I put on a semi casual shirt that buttons up. I leave the cuffs undone. The pants I choose to don are baggy and comfortable.

I grab a brush off of my dresser and rip it through my ivory colored hair as harsh as I can manage. I can feel the bristles scraping against my scalp. I don't attempt to do anything with it. I just let the hair hang down straight; it'll probably spike up in a few moments anyway.

Walking down the stairs I see you in the living room. You're not doing anything in particular, just sitting there. You don't look at me, and I don't expect you to. I walk past. Not with my head down, but with an indifferent look on my face and a level gaze at the room.

Your silver hair shows no signs of being mussed, and your clothing is relatively straight. I find it sickeningly ironic that you recover so quickly while I have to go through this entire catharsis to get myself feeling barely human again.

Your brown eyes have that look in them; the one that seems to indicate that you're somewhere else and far away from here. Are you even capable of feeling guilt? I suppose not.

You don't say anything, nor do anything. I know you won't. You've already had your fun. Besides. I know you can smell it. You can smell the bleach all over me. I wreak of the corrosive substance, and on some level you know I've managed to wash a good portion of you away.

I sit on the other end of the couch, wincing only on the inside at the contact. There's enough room for about two people in between us. On the table next to me is the grocery list. It seems that my father and I always think of things we need for the house while sitting in front of the television.

Well, the television isn't on right now, but I do know one thing that we need in the house.

It seems we've run out of bleach again.

~ Owari ~

Never written a Ryou introspective before. Turned out interesting.

~Artemis


	2. Acid

Again, nothing too bad.

Warning(s): Evil thoughts, implied rape, mental unstableness.

Summary: Bakura comes in on one of Ryou's 'sterilizing sessions' and muses on his and his other's mental states thus far. He compares his bloodlust to Ryou's love of the 'acid' that he bathes with.

Acid

I can smell it. He's bathed himself in that…substance again. The one that makes him smell almost completely inhuman. Like he's so completely clean that nothing has ever touched him. Or so he'd like to believe.

The entire house smells like it. I despise that smell.

I walk through the house, following the smell to the points where it gets strongest. The bathroom. He's still bathing? It's been over an hour; I didn't know a house could produce so much heated water. No matter.

The door comes open with an almost silent _swoosh_, which is easily covered up by the sound of the water pouring from the showerhead. I step into the room, taking one last breath outside of fresh air that is not seeping with that smell and heavy with water. I can't stand that smell.

I enter the small bathroom, and watch him for a moment through the hazy, fogged glass. His proportions are distorted in the mirror-like glass doors, making his body appear longer and thinner than it actually is. This is unnerving in the fact that he is already too skinny for a boy his age.

I approach the shower and watch as his arms move about in what would have looked to be graceful movements, but are now just fuzzy inaccuracies of gelatin. His hair is soaked and hangs down over his face. He bends down at the waist and grasps that vile little jug and pours some into his hand. A moment later another blast of that retched smell assails my senses and I have to fight the urge to gag.

I stand there, just watching him through the glass. I can't see his eyes, and even if I could, I'm pretty sure he's stopped crying at this point. This time had been gentler than before. Quicker might be more appropriate actually. He hadn't fought, and I hadn't toiled in extra barbaric measures of torture. The blood was mild and cleaned up easily, though that is the one smell I do love. It's different than this…this…acid he demands to wash himself in.

Blood, unlike acid, stains instead of bleaches. Permeates everything, causing whatever it touches to be tainted. And no matter how my you wash, my little other, there will always be blood. You cannot survive without it. It stays with you forever. Blood smells like metal. Copper. It's strong and pleasant. Firm, bold, and warm. Everything good about the human body revolves around blood. The heart, the brain, the skin. It all needs the blood, and the blood is most important to it.

I cover my mouth and nose for a minute as the humidity in the room reaches a new high. It's stifling to say the least. The moisture in the air seems to cleave to the scent of that substance, carrying it around like they're conjoined. I hate it.

Every time I inhale I think I can taste it. It's sour and bitter in all of the places that I look for sweetness and ripeness. I know that my other and I are said to be different, but how can I explain his attraction to this acid?

My touch must burn him more than this. And my hatred runs much deeper than any cleanser can go. The pain I inflict must have left more permanent scars than what can be scrubbed away with something that he uses to clean his socks.

I reach forward and wrench open the door, allowing my anger to rule my emotions and dictate my actions. I will hurt him for this; for insulting my ability to maim him. He will pay dearly, and if he thinks that when it is over that he can just wash it away, he is wrong.

He turns and looks at me, fear dancing for a moment in his eyes. He looks miserable. Utterly hurt, broken. I stop and stand there, looking at him, as though I'm still looking at a mock impersonation of myself through shower glass. He is not me. He will never be me. And I cannot change that.

He protects himself with this acid, because I will not protect him from myself.

He looks up at me, and hugs himself letting a bar of soap slip out of his hand and land in the tub where it is swished from side to side before losing momentum. He watches it as it does this.

"It won't go away," he says looking up at me, his breath hitching. "I can't make it go away…"

His voice breaks on the last few words and I know I have won.

I reach forward as he slumps. I care little for the water that soaks my clothes. I pull him out and don't mock him for the sobs that wrack his body now. He is shivering against me as I carry him without a towel to his room. I lay him on his bed and hold him to me. He is mine now.

His cries quiet down and his choked breaths eventually even out to steady breathing. I soothe back his hair and stare with half-lidded eyes at the wall. His skin is slowly regaining its normal smooth feel, rather than the harsh roughness that that substance gives him. I trace small patterns along his arm, and feel his breath against my neck. He is mine now and I do not have to break him any longer. It is done. And he is mine.

~ ~ ~ Owari ~ ~ ~

Short and crappy. How I like my introspectives. *winks* Well, that was rather odd. Mushy, but odd.

~Artemis


End file.
